September Nights
by Ninazadzia
Summary: A late-night conversation between Daryl and Michonne. They care about each other, and much more than they would ever admit. Straight-up, unapologetic Dixonne. Inspired by OneRepublic's "Feel Again."


**September Nights**

By Ninazadzia

_Heart's still beating but it's not working_

_It's like a million dollar phone that you just can't ring_

_I reached out trying to love but I feel nothing_

_Yeah, my heart is numb_

**X**

_But with you_

_I feel again_

_Yeah, with you_

_I can feel again_

**X**

**~Feel Again** by OneRepublic

* * *

><p>For the first time in months, Michonne feels a cool breeze against her skin.<p>

What a hot, long summer it had been. Georgia typically doesn't get cold until November, or October at the absolute earliest. She'd grown used to the weather, but in the blistering summer heat, she'd often reminisce about her time in New York. Her and Mike (her now-dead boyfriend) had lived there for a few years. She didn't mind the cold (enjoyed it, even), and often yearned for it, at least while she baked under the Georgia sun.

They'd left New York when she'd gotten knocked up. Her and Mike came home, and moved in with Mike's parents for a few years, until he could get a stable job.

It had taken them months to buy their new house. They'd scrimped and saved and kept track of _every _penny they spent in order to secure the down payment. And, when they finally bought it, they celebrated. Mike had even splurged on a fancy bottle of wine to commemorate.

_Happy times, _she thinks. She doesn't like thinking about New York anymore. Or the house, or her son, or Mike, for that matter. She'd moved into that new home and figured, _this is how the rest of my life is going to go. This is where I'll raise my son, where I'll get married, where Mike and I will make love until our dying days. _That was the promise she'd made to herself, their first night sleeping under their new roof.

And eight months later, the world ended.

She glances back at the grey, stone, cold walls. She's surrounded by a chain-link fence, crops, and the smell of the dead. She shares her space with forty other people. Mike and her son, her friends, her parents, everyone that she once knew—they're long gone.

Yet, somehow, this is her home now.

She contemplates sitting down, but decides against it. She keeps her feet rooted into the ground, and stares out into the black, inky sky. The wind scatters several strands of her hair.

Michonne hears the unmistakable opening and closing of the prison door. Instead of turning around, she instinctively moves her hand to the hilt of her katana. _Come closer, and I'll cut you,_ she thinks to herself. She flares her nostrils, searching for the scent of the dead. It doesn't come. Still, she could never be too careful. And it's been a long time since they've had any casualties. It's been, what, twenty-seven days since an accident? That's the longest they've gone in a few months (according to Beth Greene, that is.) She certainly isn't going to be the one to break that streak.

"Couldn' sleep either, huh?"

She exhales, and feels a wave of relief wash over her. It isn't a walker. While she can't see him, the voice unmistakably belongs to Daryl Dixon. His rough, Southern twang rings into the night.

"It's the firs' cool night we've had in a while." She loosens the grip on her katana. "Figured I'd enjoy it."

As he approaches, Michonne feels warmth spread through her. He's one of the few people she never recoils to. He stands so close to her, their thighs practically touch. Long, distorted shadows are cast by the late September moonlight.

She glances down, to Daryl's empty right hand. _Hm. He's unarmed, _she thinks. While Michonne never fails to take her katana everywhere, even if it's only a few feet outside of the Prison walls, Daryl doesn't currently carry his crossbow with him. He's developed a habit of leaving it in his room, unless they're going beyond the fence. _No reason to take it, now,_ she reminds herself.

This is home. This is where they're safe.

(Not one hundred yards away, walkers claw at the fence.)

She hears some rustling, and watches as he pulls out a plastic bag. Sunflower seeds. He rips it open, and starts popping them into his mouth. "I 'member you tellin' me you liked these." He hands her a few. "Figured I'd find ya. Polish 'em off together, y'know?"

"Where'd you get that?" she asks, as the seeds drop into her palm.

"Saved it, from our run last week." He mildly waves the bag in her direction. "Better finish these now—they expire tomorrow."

She looks at him for a moment, and then snatches the bag. "Since when do you care about expiration dates?" she asks. She takes one, and plants it on her tongue. She chews slowly, and savors the salty, crunchy flavor.

He laughs, and it's almost comforting.

She thinks back to that previous winter, when her and Andrea had been in the woods, struggling to get by. They'd go days without so much as a squirrel here or some oak bark there. It'd been four months since the collapse of Woodbury. There'd been enough food to go around for quite a while, thanks mostly to Daryl. She couldn't remember the last time she'd missed a meal.

"So how's it feel?" she asks. She elbows his ribs. "Being a celebrity and all."

Like her, he too has a habit of recoiling from others touching him. Michonne is one his exceptions, just like he's one of hers.

He chortles. His eyes crinkle; his laughter lines have become much more pronounced in recent months. "I can ask you the same question."

She snorts. Her, a celebrity? "Please."

She finally turns to take a _real _look at Daryl Dixon. In between his leather jacket, ripped jeans, and gruff, unkempt hair, he perfectly fits the mold of a Byronic, post-apocalyptic hero. The only thing missing is his crossbow.

"Naw, seriously. The kids, they look up to you. When they're not dead terrified of you, that is." He takes the bag from her.

She searches his expression. His face has filled out in the last four months. He's stronger now, less haggard. He smiles more, but mostly around her, and Glenn, and the people who know him well. Very few people see Daryl Dixon the way she does. To most, he's the Godly breadwinner. He's the one that keeps their stomachs full.

"Hmm. Bein' complimented by Daryl Dixon." She crosses her arms. "What a _rare _honor." Sarcasm drips from her voice. He's grown used to it.

Now, it's his turn to snort. "Since when do you care about compliments?"

She doesn't say anything.

They wordlessly turn back to the fence, and look on, to the expanse of the world that they have before them.

_He's out there, somewhere_, she thinks. Her fingers twitch towards her Katana.

She thinks about the Governor much, much more than she'd care to admit. In the aftermath of Woodbury, she'd had a decent chance of hunting him down. (Hell, Daryl had even helped her track him.) But since the trail went cold a few weeks ago, the realization was slowly starting to settle in. What was once a plot for justice had become a fixation (no, an _obsession_) for revenge. Lately, it had become next to all that she'd thought about, other than the safety of her friends.

She fleetingly thinks of the woman she once was. She has to hold back her laughter. Was it really only a few years ago, when she was shopping for maternity dresses, and wearing lingerie around her New York apartment? Her biggest concern back then was her relationship with Mike. She wasn't sure she knew what love felt like, anymore.

She remembered the three things she used to fantasize most about—her wedding, a job promotion, and sex. How different her fantasies are now. More than anything, she fantasizes about having the Governor's blood on her katana. And, as for the rest of her desires . . .

_Don't think about that right now,_ she commands herself. She pushes her thoughts of Daryl to the back of her mind.

She clears her throat. "I think I'm gonna head out, tomorrow," she goes.

"You mean on a run? We're goin' on one in a few days," he replies.

"No." Her mouth pulls into a tight line.

When Daryl groans, she expects it. She knows how he feels about her obsession. "Michonne," he says, tiredly.

"He needs to die," she says. "And I have to be the one to do it."

"I told you, the trail's gone cold."

"I don' care."

They've had this conversation multiple times, and it's only grown more frequent in recent weeks. She doesn't hear a single note of desperation in his voice. He's firm, of course. She's expected this, too. Because for some reason, he's starting to look after her, and much more than he does with anyone else. _That _is something she hadn't expected.

Even Carol's noticed. "He cares about you, you know." She said it quietly, as the two of them cleaned dishes a few nights ago. "Much more than he'd care to admit."

She doesn't exactly know what to make of that.

He grabs her shoulder, and turns her to face him. His nose is all of inches away from hers. And, for some reason, the only thing that initially strikes her is how his breath smells. It's a combination of sunflower seeds and toothpaste.

"Don' be stupid, Michonne," he goes. His gaze holds hers. "Is it really worth takin' that risk?"

"Yes." She pushes his hand off of her shoulder. "And you know why."

Oh, of course, he knows. Andrea. Merle. Etcetera. She doesn't need to remind him. In fact, the only person in the prison that hates the Governor almost as much as she does is Daryl.

His face falls, and then softens again. "You're better off here," he says, quietly.

"Don' tell me what to do, Dixon." It comes out harsher than she means it to.

"I know," he goes. "I couldn't. You do what you gotta do. Just don' be stupid."

The two stand there and stare at each other for a long, tense moment. _My wedding. A job promotion. Sex_. Michonne feels her heart race as she thinks of that final, normal desire. _Sex. _Oh, had it been a _long _time since she'd indulged in that particular act. When was the last time she'd had it? Must've been over two years ago, with Mike. Before the world ended. Before the Walkers.

She thinks of it very sporadically, now. And every time she does, it's been when this man, _Daryl Dixon,_ looks her in the eye . . .

His expression flickers, only for a moment. She realizes that he must be thinking along the same lines as her, at least fleetingly.

"You don' need to worry about me," she manages.

He shrugs. He opens his mouth, and then very slowly, very quietly goes, "Can' help it."

She feels a sudden rush of terror—it's not from the walkers or from the idea of leaving the fence, but from something (or, rather, some_one_) else. Her heart races, and it's enough to make her knees buckle. _No, no, no_, she thinks. _This ain't right. Michonne, you can' think like that._

She turns on her heel to leave. Daryl, however, is one step ahead of her. He reaches forward, and grabs her arm again. His touch feels like electricity. It shoots up her arm, and leaves her frozen where she stands.

This time, he pulls her close to him, closer than she was before. Her face is right up against his, his hot breath is right against her lips. She catches a glimpse of his warm, soft brown eyes.

It comes, and much more softly than she's imagined. The kiss. The warm, tender, close-mouthed kiss. And they come from Daryl Dixon's lips. Daryl Dixon, the same man she's been skirting around for weeks now. Daryl Dixon, the only person that's made her feel something, _anything, _since Mike. She tells herself, _commands _herself, to remain still. But it's to no avail. She feels herself sink into him. She brings a hand around his neck, and pulls herself closer into him. Another breeze comes through, and blows her hair in his direction.

And, then, he pulls away. She pauses, and holds her breath as she looks him in the eye.

Oh, dear God. _We didn't just do that._

"In case you don' come back," he says, quietly.

She nods. She swallows the lump in her throat. "Right."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Oh HEYYYY, Walking Dead fandom!**

**Confession: I ship both Bethyl and Dixonne. Is that weird? I don't think it's weird. I just want Daryl to settle down with a sweet, pretty girl, y'know?**

**-Confession: This wound up being MUCH more fluffy and much less raunchy than I originally meant it to be. Today is my one-year anniversary with my boyfriend, though, and in light of the fact that Valentine's day is tomorrow, I decided to take a break from the lemon-kick that I've been on and do something a wee-bit more romantic. Muhahahah.**

**Hope you guys enjoyed this! Have a very happy Valentine's Day :D**

**xx Nina**


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